


the next day is the dawn

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Episode: s01e15 Yes Men, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 00:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: "You're saying he's been brainwashed before?"





	the next day is the dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhhhmygosh, you guys. I started this fic in _2014_. I can't believe it is FINALLY FINISHED. *clings to it* Of course, it got long, but what doesn't anymore? Sigh.
> 
> Been a while since I've done this, but: title is from "Man or a Monster" by Sam Tinnesz ft. Zayde Wolf, which is the most Grant song to ever Grant.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! This one's been in the works a long, long time, so I'd really love to know what you think! <3

In the time it takes Grant to open the airlock on Sif, May makes it to Lorelei…only to get hit for trouble, if the blood on her face is any indication.

Grant’s not gonna lie; he’s damn impressed. He knew Lorelei was tough, but it’s a hell of a thing, denting the Cavalry. He’s basically extraneous here.

Still, his admiration’s gonna have to wait. Lorelei’s ready to move on.

“I will retrieve Sif’s sword,” she says. “It will look better in my hand.”

Sounds about right to him—and what would anyone else on Earth need with a dead Asgardian’s sword, anyway?—but of course May can’t just let it happen. Always gotta interfere, that’s the SHIELD motto.

Rudely enough, she doesn’t take up the issue with Lorelei. Instead, she turns to him.

“Ward,” she says. “You don’t wanna do this.”

Do what? Help out a literal _goddess_ who’s spent centuries falsely and cruelly imprisoned? He’d _think_ that’d be right up SHIELD’s alley, but apparently not.

In any case, he doesn’t have to justify himself to her. She doesn’t matter. He has his orders.

“This was the plan,” he tells her. “Cross off Sif, take the plane, eliminate anyone in our way.” There’s an implicit threat there, and May’s too smart not to see it, so he goes ahead and lifts his gun, pins her in its sights before she can go for one of her own. “Get out of her way.”

“That’s _her_ plan,” May says. “Not yours. Fight it. I _know_ you—”

“Do you?” Lorelei interrupts. She wraps an arm around Grant’s neck and drapes herself over him; he barely even hears her ask, “Are you _certain_?”

It’s amazing.

The slightest brush of her skin makes his buzz, and that’s just casual contact. Having her all over him like this…it’s all he can do not to shiver. He doesn’t have words for the sensation—for how good, how _right_ it feels.

It’s just what everyone always said being with his soulmate would be like, but he’s never felt anything like this with Jemma. He’s never had the slightest spark from her, let alone this kind of overwhelming bonfire. All these months, he’s assumed it meant there was something wrong with him…but now he has to wonder if maybe it’s _her_.

Maybe they’re not really soulmates. Maybe the alignment of their marks was some kind of freak accident, a one-in-a-million false positive.

Maybe _Lorelei’s_ his real soulmate.

It’s an arresting and thrilling thought—enough so that it actually takes him a minute to remember what they’re talking about when May says, “Yeah. Pretty damn.”

Right. She thinks she’s certain she really knows him.

The glare she pairs the assurance with would stop any SHIELD agent dead in their tracks, but Lorelei’s a goddess; she’s not so easily deterred. Grant shifts his stance to better support her as she leans forward, resting more of her weight against him.

“I am not the first to…turn his head,” she confides. “Someone else has influenced him, and it was long ago, as mortals measure things. I would say you do not know him at all.”

May gives her a flat stare. “You’re saying he’s been brainwashed before?”

He hasn’t been brainwashed at _all_ , now or ever, and resents the implication. But this is Lorelei’s show, so he keeps his mouth shut. She must have a reason for lying.

“Many times,” she claims. “The paths are worn deep into his mind, so easy to follow and retread. But surely this is no surprise? Such a fine warrior…” She rests her cheek on Grant’s shoulder, sending an electric current up his spine, and smiles at him. “…His skills must be in very high demand.”

May says nothing.

“You doubt my word?” Lorelei asks, and shrugs prettily. “No matter.” She unwinds herself from Grant—he aches at the loss—but sticks close long enough to whisper, “Kill her” in his ear.

He nods his understanding, and after one last caress to his shoulder, she saunters away. He hates to watch her leave, hates to be away from her, but he has a job to do.

The faster he takes care of May, the faster he’ll be back at Lorelei’s side.

Still, crossing May off won’t be easy. She’s tough as they come; one false step will see him dead, and he can’t leave Lorelei undefended.

He doesn’t fool himself into thinking the gun gives him that much of an advantage. They have the same training; they both know she’s too close, too far in range, to make a gunshot a guarantee. As soon as his finger twitches on the barrel (and he’s kicking himself for his reflexive trigger discipline, he really is), she’ll be moving, too—and she might just be able to disarm him before he can line his aim up again.

It’s not a sure thing…and if he’s gonna take down May, he _needs_ a sure thing.

Unfortunately, it’s not to be. Before he can decide on the best way forward, Fitz goes tearing across the lounge, shouting about a problem—and in the half-second Grant takes his eyes off of May in response, she makes her move.

The fight is brutal. Thinking he’s brainwashed doesn’t spur May to pull her punches—and Grant, of course, is trying to kill her. There’s no time to plan, only react, and his gun goes flying more than once.

Finally, though, finally he’s got it—and manages somehow to keep his grip on it when May tackles him through a fucking _sheet of glass_. It hurts (he’ll be feeling this one for days), but he doesn’t let it shake him.

This is it. His gun right up at her temple, his finger on the trigger. Even May can’t move fast enough to stop _this_.

“Sorry about this,” he says, and pulls the trigger.

The gun clicks.

May holds up the magazine.

Grant has half a second to think _fuck_ and then—

—the bottom drops out of his world.

It starts with Lorelei, with the realization of what he’s done for her and how far out of whack his thinking’s been (he thought she might be his fucking _soulmate_ , he’s gonna be _sick_ ), but it doesn’t stop there. The first memory starts a cascade, a whole fucking waterfall of things he’s never remembered before, things he forgot—things he was _made_ to forget.

A brightly lit room. Weeks of pain. Hunger. Thirst.

And always, always, John’s voice. Stern. Unforgiving. Demanding.

Goddamnit.

May is climbing to her feet, and the instinct not to be left in a position of weakness tries to drive him to do the same…but he only makes it as far as sitting up before nausea hits hard, and he’s curling in on himself, huddled over his knees like a stupid teenager abandoned in the woods.

The enormity of it’s filtering in, slowly.

Brainwashing.

John fucking _brainwashed_ him.

More than once.

Fuck. Fucking fucking—everything he thought he was—how could he—

He shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees sparks, trying to put his thoughts in order. What he’s seen, what he’s done…but he just keeps catching on the memory—memor _ies_ —of that room, the fucking brainwashing cell he’s been locked in so goddamn many times—

There are voices outside of his head, people talking, but he can’t focus on them. There’s too much happening inside, too many—fuck.

Grant swallows convulsively, trying not to be sick. Things are starting to align, but that’s not an upside; every second of the last ten years flashes before his eyes, and it’s so much bad. Bad calls, lines crossed, and over and over, that room, being reindoctrinated into Hydra’s so-called truth.

Fucking _Hydra_. Rome and Coimbra and Berlin—and fucking Santa Cruz, he fought it so hard, but it wasn’t enough—and—Manila—

“Grant?”

Jemma.

Fuck, _Jemma_.

He can hear her footsteps drawing near, feel her getting close, and he wants to _run_ , keep himself far, far away from her—but then her hand is on his shoulder and his whole body _sings_.

It’s nothing like Lorelei’s touch. It’s a million times better—and nothing he’s ever felt from Jemma before.

Because he was brainwashed? Is that it? John didn’t just steal his mind and his free will, he stole his fucking connection to his soulmate, too?

Grant’s spent all these years thinking of him as a father. And the whole time…

But Jemma’s hand is moving to the back of his neck, and—skin contact. He feels the gentle touch like a gunshot, a sudden impact that echoes through his whole body.

He’s supposed to have had this all along. This is how it’s _supposed_ to be. All these months spent thinking he was broken…and he is. It’s just that it was done deliberately.

“Grant?” she asks again. Her voice is steady, but her fingers tremble a bit on his neck. He’s scaring her.

Part of him says he doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t deserve to look at and definitely not _touch_ her ever again. That he’s a threat, programmed to follow orders even to her detriment—even to her _death_.

The rest of him is too busy moving, yanking her into his arms, and clinging to her like a scared kid to care.

…And the second she hugs him back, he can breathe again.

Oh.

He’s still scattered, still sick with what John and fucking Hydra did to him, but it’s like she’s dropped a blanket over all that trauma, muffling it enough that he can function.

This is how the soulbond is meant to be. This is why Jemma wouldn’t leave his arms for hours at a time after she nearly died, why May and Coulson disappeared for days after he was tortured. He never understood before.

God.

“Grant?” Jemma asks, yet again. “Are you all right?”

He can’t find his voice to answer.

Good thing he didn’t manage to kill May; she offers one up right away. “Lorelei said he’d been brainwashed before.”

He’s holding Jemma tight enough to feel her breathing stutter at that, and there’s no way he could miss how her hands spasm on his back. For a second he’s afraid she’s about to pull away—but no. She only doubles her grip, squeezing him tight and resting her chin on top of his head. She’s as wrapped around him as she can manage with him huddled into her like this.

It’s soothing. Like aloe on a burn he hadn’t even noticed.

“Simmons?” Coulson asks. “Is that even…what do you think?”

He sounds as lost as Grant feels. Like _he’s_ the one who just had a decade of loyalty turn out to be programming instead of choice.

“Um.” Jemma hesitates and hugs Grant that much tighter. It _should_ be hell on his ribs, after that fight with May, but he’s feeling no physical pain. Not with the rush of Jemma’s touch to drown everything else out. “I’m hardly an expert, but if Grant was—was already under some form of mental influence, and Lorelei’s was overlaid on top of it…it’s certainly possible that when her control snapped, the initial brainwashing did, as well. Theoretically.”

Grant’s got his face tucked into her neck, so he can hear and feel her swallow.

“But I don’t—I don’t know,” she says. “How could Grant be brainwashed? Who would—” She presses a kiss to his hair, obviously struggling for words, and he wishes he had it in him to comfort her right now. “Who would _do_ that?”

“There’s only one person who can answer that question,” Coulson says gravely…and then he’s there, resting a fatherly hand on Grant’s back. “But you take as much time as you need, Grant.”

He wants to take Coulson up on that offer. Wants to stay sheltered in his soulmate’s arms, hiding from the world and the truth both. It’s tempting—so, so tempting.

But no.

As much as part of him _feels_ like a scared, stupid kid, he’s not. He’s a grown man—a grown man who needs to protect his soulmate and his team from the trap he’s allowed to be woven around them. He can’t do that from this position.

So…

It takes everything he’s got, but he forces himself to let go of Jemma. Probably the only reason he manages it is that she doesn’t try to hold on; one tiny bit of hesitation on her part and he’d never be able to relinquish his hold, so it’s a relief when she drops her arms as soon as he starts to move.

Facing the room’s a whole new struggle, but he makes it through.

Coulson and May are both hovering over him, faces creased in varying degrees of concern. Sif and Lorelei are nowhere in sight—still in the Cage, maybe—and neither are Fitz and Skye.

Jemma, of course, is kneeling right next to him. Her expression is downright heartbreaking, and he can’t resist the urge to take her hand—for both their comfort. It gives him the strength he needs to meet Coulson’s eyes.

“It was John,” he says simply.

For a second, Coulson looks at him blankly…and then his face goes slack with shock. “ _Garrett_?”

“Yeah.” Grant can’t look at him—at any of them—for the rest of it, so he focuses on Jemma’s knees instead. There’s something purple staining her jeans; it looks like paint. “And Hydra.”

Next to him, Jemma jerks as if struck. Coulson actually takes a step back.

“Hydra?” May asks, like she thinks she’s misheard.

“Hydra,” he repeats.

“But—no,” Jemma says. There’s a little laugh in her voice, a touch of nervous _silly Grant, this is no time for jokes_. “Hydra was wiped out in the forties.” Her fingers flex around his. “Wasn’t it?”

The plea in her voice physically tears at him, and he wishes—more than anything—that he could reassure her.

But he can’t.

“No,” he says. “Hydra was never wiped out. It just went into hiding.”

“In SHIELD,” Coulson concludes heavily.

“Yeah.”

A long, long minute of silence follows. Jemma’s breathing sounds a little wet; she’s trying not to cry.

He holds her hand a little tighter. It’s all he _can_ do.

Finally, May swears. It’s Mandarin, not one of Grant’s languages, but the tone is clear enough.

“You said it,” Coulson agrees. He sounds shaken, but rallies in seconds to ask, “How far up does it go?”

A thousand faces flash through Grant’s head—and those are just the agents he’s interacted with. There are others, he knows; in SHIELD, in the government, in business. Hydra is everywhere.

But Coulson’s just asking about SHIELD, of course. “All the way to the top.”

“Fury?” Coulson asks—and for the first time, the disbelief Grant was half-expecting from the start makes an appearance.

Good thing Fury’s _not_ Hydra; Grant’d never be able to sell Coulson on it.

“No,” he says. “Pierce.”

The revelation lands hard. Jemma lets out a dismayed little groan, and May exhales loud enough for him to hear from several feet away.

“That’s even worse,” she mutters. Grant can’t disagree.

“Okay. Well.”

Apparently it’s all Coulson’s got; that said, he paces away, circling the broken glass and debris left in the wake of Grant’s fight with May. Grant doesn’t watch him go.

Instead, he finally looks— _really_ looks, more than the quick glance he allowed himself before to read her expression—at Jemma.

She’s pale and thin-lipped, her eyes rimmed with red and shadowed by dark circles. Half of that’s probably down to the Hydra revelation; the rest, he assumes, is his fault. He can’t imagine she got much sleep while he was off fucking around with an Asgardian sorceress.

His skin tries to crawl with memory…but no. He shakes it off.

“Are you okay?” he asks Jemma quietly.

In return, he gets a blank stare.

“Am _I_ —?” She stops, lips thinning, and shakes her head. Tears well in her eyes; it makes him want to punch something. Somebody. Himself, mostly. “I’m fine, Grant.” She gives him what’s probably supposed to be an encouraging smile; really, she just looks sick. “Are you?”

He wants to say yes and reassure her…but he’s told her way too many lies already. (Which reminds him, he needs to share John’s _other_ secret. Hydra may be the biggest threat, but Centipede’s no slouch, either—and Skye deserves to know the role Grant played in her getting shot.

But Jemma’s waiting for an answer, and Coulson’s still pacing. _That_ revelation can wait a few more seconds.)

“No,” he admits. “I’m not.”

The shaky breath she lets out makes him wish he’d gone with the lie.

“Is this helping?” she asks, looking down at their joined hands.

“Yes,” he says at once. He doesn’t wanna scare her with the fact that her touch is the only reason he’s not curled in a corner right now, but… “It’s helping a lot.”

“Would, um.” She chews on her bottom lip, brow furrowed. “Would more help?”

“Yeah,” he says, wondering at her hesitation. “Unless you don’t—”

Don’t _want_ to give more, he means to say, but he doesn’t get the chance; Jemma’s already dropped herself in his lap to more easily wrap him up in her arms. It’s not as encompassing as their earlier hug, but it’s just as good—the hum in his skin, the warmth in his bones, the easing of the endless screaming happening in the back of his mind.

He hugs her close and rests his chin on her shoulder, feeling his heartbeat slow with every breath. It’s so much easier to be calm like this.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Anytime,” Jemma says, sounding a little choked, and squeezes him tight. “Whenever you need.”

There’s still something so weird in her tone, and he wants to ask—but Coulson is finally pacing back their way.

“Okay,” he says. “Before we make plans, any more bombshells? Anything else we need to know?”

Grant hates to have to wipe that teasing smile off his face, but there’s really no choice. “Yeah. Yeah, there’s one more thing.”

Coulson and May (to a much lesser degree, granted) visibly brace themselves. Jemma hugs Grant a little tighter.

He fills up his lungs with the scent of her, her fruity shampoo overlaid with the almost-too-sharp mint of the disinfectant she uses to clean the lab, and grounds himself in it. This isn’t gonna go over well, but whatever their reactions…he can take it.

“John’s the Clairvoyant,” he says simply.

This time, it’s May’s turn to pace away—but she doesn’t content herself with circling the lounge. No, she storms out and keeps right on going, out the hall and (presumably) down the stairs into the cargo bay.

Jemma leans her head against his and doesn’t speak.

“We’ll give her a minute,” Coulson says lightly. He belies his tone with the way he sinks into the nearest armchair, but Grant’s not about to call him on it. He’s done enough damage already. “Is that all?”

He’d like to think so, but… “Hard to say. I’ve got a lot of intel, sir.”

“Yeah.” Coulson nods to himself. “It’s gonna be one heck of a debrief.”

“Sir!” Jemma starts to protest, jerking away from Grant, but Coulson cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

“A gentle one, Simmons, I promise,” he says. “But we need to know.”

“Right.” She shakes her head and curls back into Grant—or, actually, more _over_ him. Like she wants to physically shield him from the questions he needs to be asked. It puts a hell of a lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, Grant. It’s just…”

“You wanna protect your soulmate,” Coulson says. He aims a gentle smile at Grant, inviting him to share in the moment. “We understand.”

“Yeah,” Grant agrees thickly.

One of Jemma’s hands slides up his back, far enough that she can rub little circles on the bare skin above his collar. It helps a little, lets him push everything that’s threatening to overwhelm him that much further away.

“Good,” she says softly.

“And with that settled,” Coulson says, slouching back in his chair, “we need to talk about our next steps.” He drums his fingers on the armrest, looking for all the world like it’s team game night and he can’t decide which word to play in Scrabble. “Hydra’s infiltrated SHIELD, all the way up to Secretary Pierce. Garrett’s Hydra and also the Clairvoyant, which means _Centipede_ is in SHIELD…which means that we can’t even trust the people we’re _sure_ aren’t Hydra, because they could have Centipede implants.”

“Or be brainwashed,” Grant feels compelled to add. Jemma flinches and holds him tighter.

“Or that,” Coulson agrees. “Well…I guess there’s only one thing we can do.”

“Two, actually, sir,” Jemma corrects.

Coulson frowns. “Really?”

He looks to Grant, who shrugs as well as he can with Jemma covering him. He’s just as lost.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pulling back just far enough that he can meet her eyes.

“I’m thinking,” she says, shifting so that she can face Coulson without letting go of Grant, “that the absolute first thing we need to do is send that—that _bitch_ back to eternal imprisonment in Asgard.”

Oh. Right.

Grant had almost managed to forget about Lorelei—and judging by Coulson’s face, so had he.

“Point,” Coulson admits. “Okay, so that’s the first step: set down and send Lorelei and Sif off on their way.”

“Or let them be sucked out the airlock,” Jemma mutters.

It’s an unusually vicious thing for her to say, and for a second, Grant doesn’t know what to think about it. Then he flashes back to a minute ago, May storming out at the revelation about John—and a few months ago, when she went crazy on Raina after finding Coulson in the desert—and he understands.

She’s angry on his behalf, moved to thoughts of violence (more than violence; being sucked out of an airlock probably ranks as one of Jemma’s worst fears) over what Lorelei did to him.

He doesn’t know what to say about that, doesn’t know if he should tell her he’s not worth it or thank her or what—and so he decides not to say anything at all. Coulson didn’t react to the suggestion, so either he didn’t hear it or is willing to ignore it; it’s probably best if Grant just moves the conversation along.

“And then?” he asks.

Whatever the next step is, he’s got his fingers crossed that it’ll involve a long flight. For all the answers and apologies and explanations he owes, all he _really_ wants is to go lock himself in his bunk with Jemma and hide from the world for a few hours.

A long flight would be the perfect excuse.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Coulson asks…and then, in the face of their expectant stares, sighs. “Who can you possibly turn to when you need to deal with a Hydra infestation?”

Grant gapes. He can _not_ be serious.

“Heracles?” Jemma guesses.

“Good guess,” Coulson says, pointing at her, “but no. Ward?”

“You _can’t_ be serious,” he says. “Captain America?”

Jemma gasps. Coulson only smiles.

“That’s right,” he says, voice rich with satisfaction. “As soon as we get rid of Lorelei, we’re going straight to the Avengers.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da! There miiiiiight be more in the future; I do have a pretty clear idea, at least, for how that meeting with the Avengers goes. But we'll see. For now, this is it; I hope y'all enjoyed! <3


End file.
